


Broken Things

by MentalAnarchy



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:50:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3913582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MentalAnarchy/pseuds/MentalAnarchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gadgets in the Doctor's workshop aren't the only things that need repairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Things

**Author's Note:**

> * * *

  
“The heart is the only broken instrument that works.” — T.E. Kalem  
  
  
  
  
“When, exactly, did you figure it out?” Turlough leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, obviously trying very hard to look nonchalant.  
  
“Does it matter?” The Doctor turned his gaze back to the complex electronic component he was assembling, but his attention was on Turlough. From the corner of his eye, over the top edge of his spectacles, he watched the young man grimace.  
  
“I would like to know just how incompetent an assassin I was, Doctor.”  
  
“Would-be.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Would-be assassin, Turlough. Not actual.” The Doctor looked up, gave Turlough a faint smile. “For which I'm grateful.”  
  
Turlough’s answering smirk was half amused and half annoyed. “You haven’t answered my question.”  
  
No, he hadn’t. And he had no intention of doing so. “Come and see this,” he said instead.  
  
Turlough came over to stand on the other side of the workbench. The Doctor caught one of his hands and placed the half-assembled device in it. If he maintained the contact for a few seconds longer than was strictly necessary, well, that was good for Turlough, wasn’t it? A small show of affection now and then could do wonders for one who’d been friendless for so long, especially at such a young age.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Part of a Sontaran training module, I think.”  
  
Turlough raised an eyebrow. “You _think_?”  
  
The Doctor shrugged. “Well, it could be a weapons control system. I’ll know better once I’ve repaired more of it. Assuming its data core isn’t too damaged.”  
  
Turlough rolled it over in his hand and peered at the exposed circuitry. “What’s it good for?”  
  
“Good for?”  
  
“Yes, Doctor.” Turlough laid it down on the workbench beween them. “What _use_ do you have for such a device?”  
  
Turlough’s eyes were bright. Sharp. Probing. Always looking for the advantage in a situation. Always assuming others were doing exactly the same. There were dozens of things in this room that needed mending, but none so badly as this young man’s outlook on the universe. “It’s ‘good for’ keeping busy, Turlough. For keeping the hands occupied and the mind engaged.” He picked the thing up, rolled it over in his palm until the circuit he’d been working on was once more at the top, then reached for the jeweler's tweezers.  
  
Turlough’s hand darted out and stopped him, long fingers circling his wrist. He jumped, dropping the device and knocking several small circuits loose. His specs clattered down amongst them. “Turlough, what are you doing?” Surely, this wasn’t another attempt on his life. Turlough looked too sure of himself for that.  
  
“You’ve been keeping very busy since I’ve been on board, Doctor,” Turlough said quietly. His grip was firm but not tight. The edge of his thumb traced a soft caress across the inside of the Doctor’s wrist that made the Timelord’s breath catch. “And it’s not boredom you’re afraid of.”  
  
The Doctor swallowed, tugged his hand free. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” he said. But he could hear the distress in his own voice.  
  
Turlough’s grin looked more than a little predatory. “Don’t you?” He began walking slowly down the length of the workbench, trailing the tips of his fingers along the edge. “I was sent to kill you, Doctor. You knew it. The least anyone else would have done was eject me from the Tardis.” He rounded the end of the bench, paused for a moment. The slight tilt of his head made the Doctor feel very much like a sweet that was about to be unwrapped. “Yet you kept me on. You kept me close.” Turlough stepped forward, and the Doctor stepped back. “I wonder why that is.”  
  
“You have a very active imagination, Turlough.”  
  
“I’m also a keen observer, Doctor.” Turlough kept coming, slowly, and the Doctor kept backing up. Until he backed right into the wall. “And I’ve noticed the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. The way you usually avoid touching me. And the way you linger when you do.”  
  
Only a few inches separated the two of them now, and the Doctor couldn’t stop trembling. Turlough’s hand came up, fingertips brushing against the Timelord's temple, down the side of his face, along the line of his jaw. “Turlough, don't...”  
  
Turlough leaned in too quickly for the Doctor to stop him. Or was the problem that he didn't want to stop him? He moaned as the younger man's lips met his.  
  
Turlough's kiss was surprisingly tender. Not tentative. Never that. But gentle and melting, warm and rich. And the Doctor felt himself, still half-unwilling, opening to it. Turlough pushed him back against the wall.  
  
It was the warmth that defeated him, really. The heat of Turlough’s mouth, of the fingers laced into the hair at the back of his head, of the hand that slid down his side and then slipped under the hem of his jumper.  
  
The Doctor closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around Turlough's waist, pulled the lean, eager young body tight against himself. He hadn't felt like this in a very long time, hadn't really even considered wanting a male since...  
  
_Jamie!_  
  
He choked on Turlough's kiss, shoved the redhead from him with a sob. “I can’t... Turlough, I'm sorry, I just can't...” He turned his face away so he wouldn’t have to see Turlough’s expression go from shocked to hurt and angry.  
  
“Why?” All the emotions the Doctor didn’t want to see were plain enough in that single word.  
  
He shook his head and pressed his eyelids, trying to swallow the ache that had lodged between his hearts. He felt rather than saw Turlough come back to him. One hand against the wall on either side of the Doctor’s head, leaning in close but — mercifully — not touching him.  
  
“You want me.” Turlough’s voice was low and strained, almost a growl. His breath was warm against the Doctor’s cheek. So close. So agonizingly close. “And you’ve been denying it since we met. Doctor, why?”  
  
“I don’t,” the Doctor lied. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”  
  
Turlough’s voice softened, but it was still laced with aching rejection. “The Timelords are too advanced to practice the sort of bigotry humans do. So it must be something else. Tell me.”  
  
The Doctor wanted to answer him. Really, he did. But he couldn’t seem to make his lips form the words. He just stood there, shaking his head, until Turlough threw his hands up in exasperation and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him.  
  
Then he sank down the wall, folded his arms across his knees, lowered his head onto them, and wept.  
  



End file.
